Influenza
by Ashii78
Summary: Chris was feeling god-awful that day, and yet all it took was the company of one particular sniper to put him at ease. One-shot. Nivanfield.


Piers didn't know what it was he was expecting when the door to Chris' apartment swung open, but he was less than prepared for the sickly state of his normally able-bodied captain slouching in the doorway and the feeble reply that he eventually managed to croak out by way of a greeting.

"Piers," he was pressing a hand to his temple, his eyes squinted either in intense concentration or else in response to the surprising amount of daylight amplified and filtering in from the nearby windows. It was December, the wind bitter and uncaring, and yet the sun stood its ground, dulled only by the occasional grey cloud drifting by overhead. "You're braving the cold to see me? What's wrong?"

Piers ignored the irony of the question – Chris was right though, he would never grow used to the cold – and recalled what he'd been informed of only hours ago. Their captain wouldn't be able to make it to the base today, they'd been told, and that alone was a large indicator of just how bad he must be feeling. Stepping inside the apartment and giving Chris a once over only confirmed that fact; he looked positively miserable, still trembling despite the thick sweatpants and forest green sweatshirt that clung to his form and the heat that Piers could detect was cranked up somewhere in the room. The sight was concerning to say the least; the man could be likened to a furnace on most days.

"They said back at base that something nasty was going around," Piers smiled weakly, realizing just how futile the statement was. He waved the paper bag clutched in his hand, the rattle of pills in their plastic confinement filling the momentary silence. "I brought something that might help out."

"You didn't have to do that," Chris returned the smile, though it didn't do much to detract from the dark smudges under his eyes and the overall exhaustion reflected in his every movement. By observation, it wasn't a stretch to assume that his captain was barely able to stand at this point. "Do you want anything to drink?" He headed into the kitchen, proffered paper bag in hand, throwing an apologetic, "The place is a little unattended to, but make yourself at home."

Piers didn't see any reason for the remark upon surveying the apartment. Aside from a half-empty mug on the living room end table and a throw blanket crinkled from use on the couch, there wasn't much of a mess. The place was modestly decorated, which suited what he knew about his captain, and sadly lacking in personal touch but for a few photos. A lot like Chris' office, he reflected, with its arranged awards and plaques and a perpetual stack of uncompleted paperwork piled on his desk, a model of exemplary professionalism and devotion with just a touch of imperfection.

"Don't worry about me, sir-" Piers began, realizing he hadn't even taken a step from the entryway. He joined his captain in the kitchen, mindful to remove his shoes beforehand, sliding his jacket over the top of a dining chair on the way. "-but you should probably eat something before you think about taking those."

"Wish I could," Chris groaned, stomach churning at even the slightest mention of food. When he seemed to be the victor in the battle against his own nausea, the ashen tone to his cheeks hardly fading, he searched the polished wood of the kitchen cupboards for something to fill with water. "Unfortunately, I haven't been able to keep anything down all day."

"Soup," Piers offered, startled into the blunder at the sight of his captain hunched over the counter tops, face contorted in unspoken pain. He'd never been able to handle the concept of Chris getting hurt, much less being rendered powerless by something as common as a flu. He was willing to do anything to help, but the reality that there was only so much he could do was disheartening. "It might stay down better than what you've tried."

Truthfully, once his captain confessed that his apartment was bereft of anything like soup, Piers might have been a little too eager to assist him by running to the closest supermarket, but it was all something he felt was necessary. He was compelled by a kind of moral obligation to ensure that Chris was at least on the proper track to getting better before leaving him alone entirely. They were friends, partners of several years, and no one should have to go through an illness without having someone to take care of them. He couldn't just leave him like that.

That was how he rationalized everything - showing up at Chris' place that afternoon with the pills, running to the store, and even heating up the soup on a burner when he returned - and it seemed appropriate in his mind. Nothing at all like an excuse, his mind unhelpfully added on numerous occasions.

Chris, curled up at one end of his living room couch, thanked him once the bowl of soup exchanged hands and Piers revisited the kitchen to wrestle out a couple of pills and fetch a glass of water. It took the majority of a half an hour, but Chris was able to consume enough chicken noodle soup in the midst of their small talk for the sniper to deem him ready for medication.

"I'll stay for a while longer," Piers offered upon his captain's persistence that he shouldn't take up anymore of his time. He wished it was that easy to convey that he had no desire to be anywhere else. "Just until the medication kicks in, captain, that's all."

"It's mostly this goddamn headache," Chris grumbled, the first real sign of weakness he admitted to since Piers' arrival, head in his hands. "It'll kill me before I get rid of it."

Piers' heart thumped frantically in his chest even as he extended the offer, "Why don't you lay down and I can... I'll massage it away. It might help until the medicine takes effect."

He inwardly scolded himself at the notion, foolish and absurdly unprofessional, something that Chris would never agree to. He turned the conversation over and over in his mind, wondering if there might be a way that he could recover from this, too worried he'd made an idiot of himself to take note of his captain's bleary intrigue.

"Massage?"

Piers shifted on the uncomfortably couch, realizing he was in this for good, before beckoning him over, pulse still thrumming beneath his skin at an abnormally fast rate. Chris complied, something he might not have done in any other position, but he was desperate for some kind of relief from the ache and they both had long since been aware of that.

An indeterminable amount of time passed with Chris sprawled in his lap like a tame snoring grizzly bear, huddled as if in hibernation, satiated by the release of the pounding in his temples, and Piers wondered if maybe he was taking advantage of his captain in such a vulnerable state. It didn't go unnoticed by him that Chris probably wouldn't have been as docile under different circumstances, but it was the reason that had initially guided him here that stopped him from continuing down that train of thought.

Chris couldn't have known how worried he was upon first hearing that his captain was ill, couldn't have known that he'd actively searched the base for medical advice and then reluctantly pleaded for Jeff to take his load of paperwork for the day. That was something, of course, that he would regret in the near future.

It was imperative, though, because not a sheaf of paperwork would have gotten done with the fact that his captain wasn't well sitting on his mind, imposing on all of his attempts at being productive. Practice was out of the question, too, frantic thoughts were impossible to fight with his captain's health on the line and his shots would be unsteady, would leave him hopelessly frustrated and increasingly irritable.

Chris made a kind of snuffling sound in his sleep and it quickly seized his attention, stilling the hand he had combing through his captain's tousled hair. Piers gazed down at the man, whose cheek was flattened against his bare stomach in a near comical fashion and couldn't help but smile, running his fingers gently down the side of the man's face, along his stubbled jawline. Chris had unconsciously been attempting to leech some body heat from him, burrowing his face in his half-awake state until the bottom of Piers' shirt had been nudged away.

"Get some rest, captain," he whispered, although there was no chance of Chris' hearing him. It could be why he was brave enough to say it in the first place, pulling his hand up and running the fingers through his hair once more. "You deserve it."

Whatever the hell kind of crap Jeff would try to pull on him as a favor tomorrow, he couldn't deny that it was worth it in the end, seeing, just _knowing_ that his captain was at peace.


End file.
